The Pestilence

I hear it on the blast. There is a soundOf heavy pinions on the midnight cloud,A wailing riseth from the strong man's couch:He with the busiest of the throng did mixWhen morning shone, and now ere set of sun,The gasp and death-cry warn thee where he lies,—Death treadeth on the heels of buoyant health,Leaving no interval for shrift or prayer.The hearse doth meet us wheresoe'er we turn,And pass unheeded, like a household thing.The angel of Destruction walks his round,At noon-day in the city, and the tombDoth gather riches till its treasure-vaultsO'erflow. Around their mournful board at eve,The stricken and diminished circle draw,Each on the other fixing that sad glanceWhich asks, "who next?" While every heart responds,

"Lord is it I?" But 'mid the mournful homesWhere pallid fear and agony chastiseEach wonted joy,—say, are there none who readIn all earth's change the counsels of the skies?None, who close wrapped in panoply divine,Show their faith's value in this hour of need?Up, ye who follow with unshrinking stepHim who o'ercame the grave,—up, trim your lamp,And do his holy will. Amid the hauntsOf poverty and pain, with angel-stepSend forth your bounty. On the cherished fieldWhere God hath given you nurture, fix the eye,As one who soon may leave it. Lurks there aughtOf tare or bramble, in your hallowed bower?Amid the vineyard of your dearest hopes,Lurks there no root of bitterness?—no seedOf truth unsown, which you would fain have watchedUnto the harvest? Are there olive-plantsAround your table, and do baleful weedsCorrupt their root, or with their blossoms twine?Go to your work with diligence, as oneWhose time is short. Strike to the secret heartA searching glance,—and if aught linger there,Though shrouded cunningly,—one evil germ,—Be firm in extirpation, and invokeThe aid of that pure spirit, who doth deignTo dwell in fleshly temples and prepareEqual for life or death, the trusting soul.